


It Began With You

by campingwiththecharmings



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campingwiththecharmings/pseuds/campingwiththecharmings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my Captain Swan one-shots, ficlets and/or Tumblr prompts (ratings and genres may vary).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Prompt: hi! idk if you take prompts but here's one if you do: au where captain swan meet at a wedding that neither of them wants to be at. thanks!!_

* * *

**AN:** Okay so I have a feeling you wanted a modern AU since that’s all I’ve written thus far lol and I almost wrote one but then I decided I’d challenge myself a bit and went in the complete opposite direction. I hope this is okay!

(PSA: Anything I know about royal weddings/receptions is from movies and tv shows so please forgive any inaccuracies).

 **Rated:** C for Cheesy (and an F for some mild Fluff)  
 **Words:** 3200+

(Un-beta’ed)

* * *

Sometimes she really hates being a princess.

Sure, the life had its perks; enormous castle, sparkling jewels and luxurious clothing, a safe place to rest her head every night, and at _least_ three square meals a day. She knows she should be thankful for being born to such privilege, and most of the time she is, but today is one of those days where she’s lost her perspective. She understands what’s expected of her as a princess, knows that at twenty-three years old she should’ve been married off ages ago (or at the very _least_ engaged) and yet she’s turned down (or driven away) every suitor her parents have thrown at her.

What can she say? She’s picky (though, she _is_ a princess, why should she settle for just _anyone_?).

She’s had this discussion with her parents numerous times, has explained that she wants what _they_ have (True Love, and all that). But after years of scouring the kingdoms for a suitable match, they appear to be getting desperate.

Emma fights back the urge to wince as her current dance partner, Prince John, steps on her toes for the fourth time in the last five minutes. She forces a smile as he fails to notice his blunder, continuing to drone on and on about some new trade agreement his kingdom has just signed with another.

Pain and misery aside, she’s down right livid. She cannot believe her parents thought it appropriate to find her a suitor at her best friend’s _wedding_ of all places. She and Princess Aurora had more or less grown up together; their mothers had been close friends in their youth and, as a result, their families naturally ended up being close as well. So when the news of Aurora’s engagement had reached her, she hadn’t hesitated to make certain that she could attend.

Had she known what her parents had been planning for the celebration that followed, she might have given it a bit more thought.

Her eyes search the room frantically as she looks for any excuse to escape this menace of a prince (if only for a few minutes), grumbling internally when a suitable opportunity does not present itself. Resigning herself to a dull evening (complete with tedious conversation and foot trampling), she returns her attention back to the prince and tries not to roll her eyes when she notices he’s _still_ talking about that trade agreement.

* * *

He’s been stuck standing in the same spot for hours trying to remember what prompted him to agree to such a position.

He really does love his kingdom. It’s the reason why, as a member of the royal navy, he risks his life to defend it on a daily basis. He understands that guarding the royal family and their guests is an important job and he’s proud to do it but.

He’s _bored_.

Lieutenant Killian Jones had more or less been raised aboard a ship. He’d spent his nights being lulled to sleep by the rocking of the waves, spent his days on deck in the hot sun with the salty spray of the sea cooling his heated skin.

That is, until he’d been injured.

Their ship had been attacked and boarded by Maleficent’s forces. The sorceress has been trying to destroy their kingdom for years because of some odd obsession she has with their princess (he thinks, perhaps, that there is more to the story than that, but he only knows what he’s been told). He’d been fighting with one of her army’s commanders alongside his brother (and captain). The man was particularly vicious (as most of the witch’s higher ups tended to be) and would’ve gutted his brother were it not for him.

Of course, _he’d_ almost been gutted instead, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been; all that had mattered to Killian at the time was that his brother was alive and well.

He still thinks Liam overreacted, still thinks he would’ve healed just _fine_ onboard their ship, that he hadn’t really _needed_ to stay behind.

Yet here he was.

He’d been a month into his recovery when his captain had come to him. “We’re being sent off on another mission, brother,” he’d told him, “On the _King’s_ orders.” That’s when he’d told him they needed to leave immediately and that Killian would have to stay behind. Killian had, of _course_ , been furious but Liam was his captain; he’d had no choice but to heed his orders.

That had been months ago. He was more or less fully healed now and his brother was still off doing God knows what on that special mission of his.

The castle had been a flurry of excitement when he’d come to the infirmary to have his bandages changed the week before. _The Princess’s wedding_ , he’d reminded himself. The head of the royal guard must’ve heard he’d be stopping by as he’d stormed in and practically demanded to have a word with him.

Turned out that some of his men had been sent to aid one of their allies. When he’d asked Killian to assist him in securing the castle during the wedding, he’d agreed immediately (he _was_ a servant to the crown, after all).

Little had he known that ‘securing the castle’ actually meant ‘standing in the same place for an entire evening.’ Killian knew deep down that it wasn’t really about the lack of action, but rather his separation from the sea (and his brother). He hadn’t been trapped on land for this long since his youth and it was beginning to negatively affect his mood. He knew that it was childish, that he was a member of the royal navy and moping around during the celebration of the wedding of his kingdom’s Princess was, as his brother would say, _bad form_. If Liam were here, he’d be extremely disappointed in him.

He watches the guests dance from his position beside the High Table where the Princess and her new bride (General Fa Mulan) sit. He recognizes most of the faces he sees whirling by, many of them belonging to members of the royal court. A particular face catches his eye, however, a face belonging to a girl ( _woman_ ) he’s not seen since before he joined the navy.

She is a vision; golden hair intricately woven and piled neatly onto her head, beautiful fair skin that appears to glow, emerald-colored eyes that shine. She is dressed in a simple red gown, floating gracefully about the room with her partner.

Princess Emma, Princess Aurora’s childhood friend.

She’s far lovelier than he remembers.

He mentally kicks himself for not realizing that she would be here for this. Sure, she doesn’t visit their kingdom as often as she had in her youth, but Princess Aurora was still her dearest friend. Killian wonders briefly if she’s thought of him as often as he’s thought of her these past years (and then promptly throws the thought away because she’s a _princess_ and he is nothing to her).

Still, a part of him hopes (bloody sap that he is).

He watches as she suddenly stumbles, her partner (who he know recognizes as a prince from a neighboring kingdom) halting momentarily as she grimaces a smile and holds a hand up as if to tell him everything is fine. They resume their waltz a moment later and Killian notes that she’s no longer trying to hold back her displeasure at her current situation.

He knows how she feels.

* * *

Emma is two seconds away from feigning an illness just to get away from Prince John. It boggles her mind that he obviously feels that their encounter is going well, especially since she has barely said a word the entire time (though, perhaps he just prefers his princesses silent). What about this man had made her parents think they’d be compatible?

As she continues to mentally grumble to herself and struggles to keep her face impassive. Her gaze is drawn to where the newlyweds sit at the High Table, laughing and drinking. She smiles at their noticeable happiness, an ache of longing settling in her chest. As the product of True Love, she naturally hopes to find such a thing one day herself.

She’s been quite unlucky in that department, however, as of late.

She winces once more as Prince John crushes her toes yet again (wondering briefly if he perhaps has something against her shoes as he seems so intent on ruining them).

A plan begins to form in her mind when her eyes again fall on the couple at the High Table. She smiles for the first time in roughly two hours, an end to this abysmal exchange _finally_ within her grasp. John is in the middle of telling her about his new carriage (“It’s crafted from the _finest_ pine in all the realms”) when she decides she’s heard enough.

“Prince John,” she interrupts, despite the fact that she’s been explicitly taught all her life _not_ to do such things, “Would you excuse me for a moment? I simply must go and offer my congratulations to the happy couple.”

John sputters at the disruption, mouthing wordlessly as Emma’s smile widens. “Wonderful. Perhaps we’ll continue this later,” she suggests, nodding quickly in thanks and limping as gracefully as possible away from the dancing masses.

Emma breathes a quiet sigh of relief as she walks, the distance between her and the prince already causing her to feel lighter.

* * *

A drunken moron pulls him from his post three hours in. He’s annoyed, yes, but at least he had something to  _do_ for ten minutes. He relieves that guard who covered for him as he returns, nodding in thanks as he walks away. Killian sighs and scans the room to see what (if anything) has changed in his absence.

A flicker of delight rushes through him when his gaze falls upon Princess Emma’s former dancer partner sulking petulantly by one of the banquet tables. He allows himself a small smile at the feeling and continues his perusal of the crowd. The newly married Princess Ella and Prince Thomas have joined in the festivities; he hadn’t realized they had returned from their honeymoon in time for this. Lady Bell and Lady Lucas are giggling madly about something at the far end of the High Table, pointing out at the dancers every now and then.

He starts when his survey leads him to where Princess Emma has ended up; she’s conversing with Princess Aurora and General Mulan at the center of the long High Table. The three ladies laugh raucously after a moment, holding up goblets of wine and clinking them in celebration. Killian pulls his eyes from the scene, feeling as though he’s intruding on a private moment. He spends the next several minutes willing himself not to look in their direction again (he usually has better self-control than this, what is _wrong_ with him). He caves not long after, glancing discreetly at the center of the table from the corner of his eye.

Princess Aurora is embracing the blonde from her place behind the table. The two pull back after a moment and speak briefly, before all three ladies exchange smiles and parting waves. Princess Emma begins to walk away, heading away from him, until her eyes fall on the banquet table. She halts and quickly ducks behind a column before she’s spotted. Killian laughs quietly to himself at the display. Who knew royals could be so amusing?

She leans against the column for several minutes, acting as though she’d been intending to stand there all along. She swipes another goblet of wine from a server passing by with a tray and casually peeks around the pillar.

“Excuse me, guard,” a voice suddenly interrupts.

Killian’s head quickly swivels toward the voice to find a short nobleman wearing a sash before him.

“How may I assist you, Your Grace?” Killian asks respectfully, wracking his brain as he tries to figure out where he’s seen the crest on the sash before.

“That _man_ over there,” he says haughtily, pointing at the far end of the hall, “He’s stolen something of mine. I demand you make him return it at once.”

Killian observes the man in question, noting he looks just as respectable as anyone else in the room. “Are you certain it was him, Your Grace?”

The nobleman flushes red with anger at the question. “ _Of course_.”

Killian licks his lips nervously and scans the room for the head of the guard. “Very well, please, follow me,” he instructs, walking over to one of the other castle guards.

Another twenty minutes have passed before he finds the head of the guard and explains the situation, handing the nobleman (who he is later told is the Duke of Weselton) off and returning to his place by the High Table. Princess Emma has disappeared, no longer at the pillar he’d last seen her at. His gaze travels back over to the banquet tables out of curiosity and finds that her former dance partner is also gone.

Disappointment flickers briefly in his chest as wonders if the princess has indeed left the castle. He had hoped their paths might cross, had hoped that perhaps she might recognize him from one of her many summers spent here (especially the one where she’d sliced open his cheek during fencing practice).

It was foolish, he knew, but the hope was there nonetheless.

He’s shaken from his thoughts a moment later by a hissing sound. He furrows his brow and searches the surrounding area for the source of the noise.

“ _Psst, guard_ ,” he hears, finally realizing that it’s apparently a person and _not_ some kind of reptile.

His eyes widen somewhat as a blonde head peeks out from behind the column to his left a moment later.

Well, he supposes that answers at least _one_ of his questions.

Princess Emma appears to be waving him over now. To be sure she is not attempting to get someone else’s attention, Killian takes a quick look around him before casually ambling in her direction.

“Is there something I can assist you with, Your Highness?” he asks when he’s closer, his tone quiet but respectful.

“ _Prince John_ ,” she whispers, biting her lip and flicking her eyes around.

Killian’s brow furrows in confusion when she doesn’t elaborate and rests his hand on the belt holding his sword. “I beg your pardon?”

“ _Prince. John. Do you see him_?” she whispers again, inching a bit more from behind the column.

Ah, she’s asking whether her former companion was still here. He nods to her to say that he understands and turns back toward the room to scan it.

“I do not, Your Highness,” he says, returning his attention to her. “Is…everything all right?”

She stops frantically searching the room at the uncertainty in his tone, her eyes rising to meet his. “Oh, yes, everything’s fine. Thank you,” she says, smiling thinly.

Killian gets the impression that she’s not being entirely truthful, but who is he to question her? He nods after a moment of silence and moves to walk away, assuming she is no longer in need of his assistance.

“Wait,” she says abruptly, her tone curious.

He halts his gait and turns back toward her. “Yes, Your Highness?”

“Have we….met before?” she asks, her brow crinkled in thought as she studied him.

Killian swallowed nervously and scratched behind his ear as he considered his answer. “I suppose it’s possible,” he replies simply, not wishing to make her feel any guilt over not remembering him (because she _would_ , kind person that she is).

“How long have you been a guard here?” she asks, her eyes roving his face in search of some familiar tell that will remind her.

“I’m actually not a member of the guard, Your Highness. I’m a lieutenant in the royal navy,” he responds, pride swelling inside him at the reminder.

She studies his face as he stands there awkwardly in silence, coughing in an effort to break the tension a moment later.

“Jones,” she says softly, her eyes lighting with recognition as she smiled once more. “Killian Jones. You were in the fencing class I took with Sir Lancelot.”

Killian huffed a laugh and averted his gaze to the floor. “I was indeed, Your Highness.”

“Please, call me Emma,” she asks, laughter lacing her voice as she lays a hand on his forearm to reclaim his attention.

“I couldn’t possibly—“

“ _Please_. I stabbed you in the face with my sword, I think we’re well past the formalities,” she laughs, her green eyes flicking to the scar on his cheek.

He flushes and rakes a hand through his hair before meeting her gaze once more. “I’d classify it as more of a nick than a stab,” he joked, his heart swelling in his chest (sap, sap, _sap_ ).

She snorts out a laugh, blushing slightly at her unladylike response. “If you say so.”

Killian smiles widely at her, secretly thrilled to have induced such a reaction. “It’s lovely to see you again...Emma,” he says earnestly, his tone quiet as he adds on her by her given name.

Emma smiles and nods in agreement. “You too, Killian.”

They stare at each other silently for a brief moment before she shakes her head and wets her lips.

“So, if you’re a lieutenant in the royal navy, what are you doing _here_? Do you just enjoy wearing the royal guard uniform?”

“Ah,” Killian starts, his hand cupping the back of his neck, “It’s a long, boring story.”

“I doubt that,” she says, something that looks suspiciously like mischief shining in her eyes. “I have an idea, why don’t we catch up over a dance.”

He sucks in a breath at her suggestion, the mere idea of holding her close far more appealing than he’s willing to admit. But he’s here to do a job, not dance with princesses (even one specific princess he fears he’s been in love with since the day she nicked his cheek).

“I would be honored, Princess. However, I’m afraid it would be frowned upon by my superiors.”

Emma scoffs at his excuse and saunters closer to him, invading his personal space. “I’m a personal guest of the crowned princess, not to mention a princess in my own right; no one is going to dare to tell me who I can and can’t dance with.”

Killian is so caught off guard by her insistence, he is silent for longer than is probably proper. He watches wordlessly as some of the fire leaves her eyes and she takes a step away from him, flicking her eyes toward the ground as if suddenly shy.

“Unless you do not wish to spend time in my company,” she adds quietly, understanding lacing her tone, “Which I promise to not hold against you.”

His heart plummets to his feet at the sadness in her voice, his brain screaming for him to _talk to her, you daft idiot_.

“I’d spend all the time you’d allow me in your company, my lady,” he says softly, his tone earnest.

She lifts her head to meet his eyes as a smile stretches slowly across her face. “Good,” she says simply, reaching down to grab his hand and leading him onto to the dance floor.

 


	2. Montana Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (CS AU) – Emma’s family moves from the heart of Boston to an old farm in Montana during her final year of high school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: lol Don’t even ask me where this came from, I legit have no clue.
> 
> (Un-beta'ed)

Emma lumbered heavily down the school bus steps and onto the dusty road below. She squinted and raised her hand over her eyes to halt the sun’s onslaught as the driver closed the doors behind her. She grumbled in annoyance and turned away as the vehicle continued on its route, the tires kicking up a large cloud of dust. Sighing, she turns to face the long, empty road in front of her, mentally cursing her parents yet again for dragging her out to the middle of nowhere for her last year of high school.

Her mother, ever the optimist, had tried to convince her that this was not the end of the world, that moving from their tiny apartment in Boston to a big house in the Montana countryside was going to be the best thing for their family in the long run.

Her father was beside himself with glee, especially when the realtor had informed them that the land their new house sat on was technically still classified as farmland; he’d started researching crops and muttering to himself about getting horses and cattle after that.

Her little brother Leo was only four so his opinion was honestly kind of irrelevant (though, when he’d heard about the possibility of horses, the excited squeals could probably have been heard from space).

Emma, however, had been positively livid. She suspected this sudden location change had something to with her. So what if she was constantly in detention or skipping school or getting into fights? It wasn’t _her_ fault she was so angry these days. Truthfully, it was a lot of different things but mostly it was _him_ ; her stupid ex-boyfriend Neal. But there had been tons of _good_ things in Boston, the greatest being her best friend Elsa (who was probably the only person in the entire world who _really_ understood her).

She loved her parents, she really did, and she knew she’d been a disappointment to them in Boston, but to take her away from her friends, from her _home_ right before her senior year of high school and throw her out here in the middle of literal _nowhere_? Emma didn’t know if she’d ever be able to forgive them for that.

Their house was nice enough (she had the whole attic to herself so she couldn’t _really_ complain) and was built on what was once an apple orchard, apparently. There were only a few trees still standing but she had yet to see any of them produce anything other than leaves in the few weeks they’d been there. The nearby school was nothing special, she liked it as much as she’d liked the last one (which was not at all), but the place had _one_ single school bus and the route it took at the end of a school day forced her to walk four miles down a rocky, dirt road just to get to the outskirts of their property.

One thing she did (secretly) like about this place, though, were all the damn _stars_. Emma simply had to look out of the bedroom window to see an entire sky full of them; it’s something she never realized she’d been missing living in Boston her whole life.

She let her hand drop as her eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, watching as the old, yellow bus rumbled over the River Road Bridge. Adjusting the strap on her bag, she sighed once more and began her trek home.

A warm breeze brushed lightly through her long, blonde locks as her boots crunched and kicked the rocks littering the path. She wondered idly if they were ever going to officially pave this damn road and quickly decided that it was unlikely as the area was clearly not often traveled.

Three-quarters of the way home, the late afternoon sun has forced her to remove her signature leather jacket lest she wishes to melt into a puddle of sweat (she _swears_ Boston was never this hot). The breeze from just a few miles ago seems to have vanished and she’s mentally cursing herself for not bringing a hair tie with her this morning as her long hair sticks to the sweat on her neck.

“Are you lost?”

Emma jumps slightly in surprise and turns automatically toward the owner of the voice; he’s older than her, but not much by her estimation, running a hand through the disheveled brown hair on his head. His lips are quirked in mild amusement as his (ridiculously blue) eyes study her.

She scoffs in lieu of a response and turns away to resume her walk home.

“Apologies for my prying, we just don’t get many pedestrians down this way,” he explains, as if she hadn’t just blown him off.

Emma sends him a quick glare over her shoulder and continues walking. “It’s a free country, you know. I can walk here if I want.”

The man chuckles lightly at her surly response. “True, but there isn’t much in the direction you’re headed, save for a few old farmhouses.”

“Do you have a point or are you just giving me a geography lesson?” she quips, satisfaction flashing through her when she sees his eyebrows raise in surprise.

“You’re a tough lass,” he declares, something that sounds suspiciously like pride in his voice.

She doesn’t respond, choosing instead to reaffix her attention on the road in front of her as she resumes her trek.

He’s walking with her now, the fence separating the road from the pasture between them. “Why are you following me?” she asks, curiosity winning out over her annoyance.

He shrugs nonchalantly as he walks, his attention turned to the clouds above them. “Who says I’m following you?”

“Why _else_ would you be walking this way? Like you said, there’s not much back here,” Emma retorts, shooting him an obvious look (one that brings a smile to his lips despite the fact that he’s not looking directly at her).

“My, my, aren’t _we_ presumptuous,” he replies, teasing smirk on his lips as he returns his attention to her, “Perhaps I too live down this way.”

She turns toward him again as she continues to walk, a quizzical expression on her face. “No you don’t,” she immediately scoffs, mentally kicking herself a moment later (she’s all but confirmed _she_ lives down this way…in case he hasn’t already figured that out).

“Is that so? How would you know?” he asks facetiously, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he smiles at her.

She grumbles and rolls her eyes after a moment, distracting herself by readjusting the bag on her shoulder.

He chuckles at her (lack of a) retort, the rich timbre of his laugh causing her stomach to flip (much to her chagrin).

Silence falls between them when their eyes meet again. She’s still walking backwards down the road and he’s still walking with her; hands in his pockets, annoyingly charming smile on his lips and all she wants to do is slap it off his face (or maybe use some other, more enjoyable method).

“I’m leaving now,” Emma says finally, dragging her gaze away from him as she starts to turn back around.

“Well, if you ever want to get together and do this again,” he lilts, voice tinged with amusement, “I’m Killian, and live at the ranch _just_ over there.”

She shoots him a look over her shoulder that says ‘fat chance, buddy’.

Another deep chuckle reaches her ears just as he shouts, “It was lovely not meeting you!” and it absolutely does _not_ bring the tiniest of smiles to her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple of other random scenes hopping around in my head set in this 'verse, so if y'all like this, I can write those too at some point (maybe~).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian and Emma are at a party and decide to have a quickie in the bathroom (because why not?). Smutty - Not a whole lotta plot beyond that tbh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Firstly, please note that the rating for this chapter is M. If that's not your thing, that's totally cool but you've been warned.**
> 
> So I haven't written smut in a while and I don't wanna get rusty so, here, have a quick, smutty ficlet (a quicklet?).
> 
> (FYI: This is the closest I've ever gotten to writing anything in the canon-verse so please be gentle) (haha~)
> 
> (Un-beta'ed)

He bites his lip against a gasp, sucking in a quick breath through his nose as she shoves him against the wall and sinks to her knees. The mischief in her green eyes is the only warning he gets before the soft warmth of her hand grasps his length. He lets his head drop back heavily against the bathroom wall as her mouth closes around the tip of his cock, swallowing back the groan attempting to claw itself from his throat.

Her gaze is trained on his face as she takes him in further, humming around his length and making him want to stuff his fist in his mouth. Instead, his fingers gently tangle in her hair as she continues her sweet torture. She swirls her tongue around the head of his cock, drawing a low moan from deep in his chest; he doesn’t miss the smug triumph dancing in her eyes.

“ _Emma_ ,” he pleads breathily, biting back another moan when she takes him in again and he hits the back of her throat.

She releases him with a wet pop, her hand continuing to stroke him.

“Shh,” she chastises, a glint in her eye that suggests it has been her intention to break him all along, “Wouldn’t want to get caught, would we?”

The delicious friction of her warm, smooth skin against his is distracting to say the least, and if they were anywhere else, the very _last_ thing he’d be worrying about is how much noise he’s making. As it is, they’re currently in the bathroom of her parent’s loft in the midst of another one of Storybrooke’s ‘We Saved the World Yet Again, Let’s Party’ celebrations.

Needless to say, he most certainly does _not_ wish to be caught in such a compromising position.

His blonde minx, on the other hand, seems to relish the idea; that or she simply enjoys pushing him to his limits.

He sucks in a breath as she descends upon him again, the blissfully wet warmth of her mouth making his knees weak (bloody hell, his Swan is a _wonder_ ).

He whines as she releases him again, continuing to slowly pump her hand up and down his shaft.

She bites back a chuckle as he grunts in frustration and that’s when he realizes:

_She’s teasing him._

Determined to return the favor, he quickly tugs her to her feet and pulls her against his chest, meeting her lips in a fierce kiss. He runs his tongue along the seam of her lips, her hum of delight when she grants him access, when he plunders her mouth with his tongue, going straight to his already straining cock.

He ruts slightly against her thigh as her arms wrap around his waist, her fingers exploring the skin beneath his shirt as he drags his hand up her side to cup one of her breasts.

The gasp that spills from between her lips as he presses _her_ against the wall is almost as sweet as the barely stifled moan that follows when he slowly drags his lips down her neck. She digs her nails into his back in retaliation as he runs his tongue over her pulse point, the scruff of his beard scratching lightly against the heated skin of her neck.

“Let’s see how quiet you are when delightfully wicked things are being done to _you_ ,” he whispers darkly, pulling down the high neckline of her shirt with his hook and sucking a bruise onto the skin of her collarbone.

Her hands slide into his hair when he falls to his knees, undoing the button of her jeans with practiced ease. She moans lowly as he proceeds to softly kiss every inch of newly uncovered flesh, slowly dragging her jeans down her legs. She’s panting and flushed by the time he gets her right leg free, her fingers still tangled in his thick locks.

He can feel the heat of her through her panties as he kisses her thigh and observes her through his lashes.

“How’re you doing up there, love?” he asks knowingly, raising an eyebrow as he gently caresses her hip with his thumb.

The half-hearted glare she shoots him brings a smug smile to his face. “We don’t have all night, Jones. Get on with it,” she responds, bracing herself against the wall and angling her hips toward him.

He gently nuzzles her sex with his nose in response, her shaky sigh music to his ears. “As you wish,” he says finally, moving her underwear to the side with his hook.

Her breath catches when he licks a slow line through her folds, her hold on his hair tightening as his lips close around her clit, her legs trembling as he slides two fingers into her. She whimpers softly and murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like his name under her breath as he continues to devour her; she tastes like heaven on his tongue.

He knows she close by the erratic sound of her breathing, by the way she shamelessly ruts her hips against his tongue and fingers, by the breathy ‘ohs’ and ‘yeses’ steadily pouring from between her lips. He sucks hard on her clit when he feels her walls begin to flutter around his fingers and drags her leg over his shoulder so he can better watch her fall apart.

Her lips part in a silent cry as she comes. She chases her pleasure, continuing to ride his fingers and his mouth until she is spent and slumping against the wall Killian has her propped up against. He presses a tender kiss to her inner thigh before releasing her underwear and easing her leg off of his shoulder.

She releases her grip on his hair as he stands, grasping the chain around his neck and dragging him to her for a languorous kiss. He groans softly and tangles his fingers in her hair, relishing in the soft, wet slide of her lips on his.

He feels her hand slide down from its place on his chest and come to rest on his hip, feels her fingers lightly caressing the strip of skin between his shirt and the waistband of his partially unzipped pants.

Realizing the intent behind her actions, he pulls away from her mouth and rests his forehead against hers as he attempts to catch his breath. “We should head back to the festivities, Swan. Someone’s bound to come looking if we’re gone too long.”

“Let them look,” she decides, pushing his jeans farther down his hips and pressing herself against the length of his body, “I’m not done with you just yet.”

She drags his lips back to hers, backing herself against the wall and hitching her leg over his hip. They swallow each other’s moans as his cock slides against her heated, wet flesh. Taking him in her hand, she guides him to her entrance, wordlessly giving him permission to take her.

Killian inhales sharply as he sinks into her, her hands grasping for purchase on his leather-clad shoulders as she hooks her other leg around his waist in an effort to pull him closer. He fills her to the hilt and stops, giving her a moment to adjust given their precarious position. When he’s sure she’s ready, he pulls almost all the way out before quickly snapping his hips back toward her.

She bites her lip and exhales sharply through her nose as he pumps in and out of her. Resting his forehead against her shoulder with a grunt, he leisurely mouths at her neck.

“Feel so good, love. So good,” he mumbles, increasing his pace as his fingers find the place where they’re joined.

She moans his name quietly against his mouth as she comes, her feet digging into his ass, her fingers clutching his jacket for dear life as he pounds into her. He comes with a low groan a moment later, his hips stuttering against hers.

He presses her into the wall as they catch their breath, his knees weak but his need sated.

She sighs at the loss when he pulls back enough to release her, but not so far that they can’t indulge in one last kiss. Her fingertips trace his jaw as they part, her eyes lingering briefly on his parted lips.

Soon enough, they’re standing before the door hand-in-hand, ready to return to the festivities.

“How long have we been absent?” Killian asked, running his thumb along the back of her hand.

“Couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen minutes,” she reasoned, placing her hand on the doorknob, “Just act casual.”

He nods as she inches the door open and pokes her head out through the opening. She pulls him along behind her when she’s sure they’re in the clear and starts to lead him toward the stairs when her mother spots her.

“Mind helping me with something in the kitchen?” she asks, smiling serenely at the couple.

Emma shrugs and releases Killian’s hand. “Sure,” she says, throwing a quick smile at him over her shoulder.

Mary Margaret falls into stride alongside her as they walk and leans in close, lacing their arms together. “A word of advice? The only bathroom at a party is probably _not_ the best location for a tryst.”

Her mother drags her along as casually as possible as she stiffens, her face flushing in embarrassment. “I, uh…”

Mary Margaret pats her arm sympathetically and smiles in mild amusement. “Don’t worry, it’ll be our little secret,” she whispers, winking and dragging a mortified Emma into the kitchen.


	4. Chapter 4

_Prompt: Killian can't keep his hand off Emma._

* * *

**AN:** Okay so the prompt for this  _actually_ was "killian finds some viagra, and out of curiosity takes some, and then emma comes home and lotsa hot smut ensues" but when I tried to write this, I failed miserably so I changed the prompt a bit. Read at your own risk~

**Rated** : M (lol obv~)  
 **Words:**  1,994

(Un-beta’ed)

* * *

 

He loves waking up with her warm body pressed snuggly against his front, loves the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips as he trails them across her hip, loves the goosebumps that rise in their wake. He loves to drag his lips across the back of her neck, loves to smile against her shoulder blade when his touch sends a tiny shiver down her spine. He loves to gently nose  _that_ spot behind her ear, loves the way it makes her hum contentedly even in her sleep.

He loves the way her hands reach for him when she finally begins to stir, loves the way her fingers clutch at the material of his sleep pants as she tries to pull him closer…loves the way she moans into her pillow when she feels him hard against her backside.

He loves the way his name falls breathily from her lips as his hand finds its way to her inner thigh, loves the way she huffs in frustration when he stops to toy with the elastic of her panties, loves the sigh of relief when he pulls them aside and finally sinks a digit into her heat. He loves the little whimpers that fall from between her lips as he adds another, loves the hitch in her breath when he finds _that_ spot.

He loves the way her jaw goes slack when she’s close, loves the way she wriggles and writhes in his grasp, loves the way she presses herself harder against his hand as his thumb relentlessly circles her clit. He loves the way she lets her head fall back against his shoulder when she peaks, loves the feel of her hand tangling in his hair as she turns so she can meet his eyes, loves the needy press of her lips against his. He loves the way her other hand finds its way to his bare chest, loves the feel of her finger tips against his skin as they slide slowly down his stomach, loves the desire that bubbles in his gut when they toy with the edge of his pants. He loves the feel of her hand wrapped around him, loves the way she smiles against his lips when he groans, loves the smooth drag of her skin against his.

He loves the feel of her quick pants against his cheek when he cups her breast, loves the way her nipples pebble beneath her tank top, loves the way her body instinctively arches closer to his touch. He loves the pull of her fingers in his hair as he laves at her breast through her shirt, loves the way she wraps a leg around his thigh and ruts herself against him.

He loves the look in her eyes when she tells him she wants him, loves the way she pushes him onto his back and straddles his hips, loves the way her mouth falls open in pleasure when he pulls her down hard against him. He loves the way she pulls his mouth to hers, her fingers tangled in his necklace, loves the desperate slide of her lips against his, the taste of her tongue as it drags against his own.

He loves the fire in her gaze when she pushes him away once more, loves the way she slowly pulls her shirt over her head and bares herself to him, loves the small smile on her pretty lips that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to him. He loves the pleasurable drag of her nipples against his chest as she rides him, loves the feel of her on him, _around_ him.

He loves the way her fingers dig into his shoulders when he fingers her clit, loves the way her breasts bounce as she begins to ride him harder, loves the way she starts to flutter around his cock. He loves when she tosses her head back in ecstasy, the ends of her golden hair tickling his thighs, loves the low moan that tumbles from her parted lips when she finally falls apart.

He loves the way she winds her arms around his neck, still in his lap, loves the way she rests her forehead against his and blissfully sighs “good morning” with a smile on her lips, loves the way it widens when he sends her one of his own.

_He loves her._

* * *

He relishes the excitement jolting through him as the lock on the door to his and Emma’s seaside apartment clicks open, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as the knob turns. He delights in her surprised squeal as he pins her against the back of the door, his hand immediately burying itself in her hair, his desperate lips descending upon hers.

He smiles when she grumbles something along the lines of “It’s only been a _day_ , Killian” against his mouth, one hand on his chest to keep him at bay, the other curled tightly around the collar of his dress shirt. He smiles brighter when she chuckles, a smile of her own forming on her lips as she leans in and gently brushes them against his.

He presses her harder against the wooden door with his hips, presses himself closer as their kisses slowly turn fierce, as their need for each other grows. He loves the feel of her pressed against him, loves the feel of her soft lines and even softer skin. He loves the feel of her wildly beating heart against his chest, loves that he can _feel_ the low groan she emits when he trails his lips down the column of her throat, his beard tickling as he sucks a bruise onto her collar bone.

He loves the taste of her skin, salty yet somehow still sweet (just like his Swan), loves the feel of her fingers sinking into his hair, of her hips gently moving against his. He mutters “I’ve missed you dearly, love” against her neck as his fingers flick open the button of her jeans, her breath catching when he sinks to his feet.

He watches her from beneath his lashes as she leans against the door, her breathing heavy as he quickly removes her boots. He relishes the goosebumps that raise on the skin of her thighs as he inches off her jeans, his fingers and lips greeting every patch of newly exposed skin. He revels in the shaky sigh she emits when his tongue finds her center, in the way her thighs quake slightly in an effort to remain upright, in the way her fingers once against twist in his hair.

He watches as her eyes fall closed, as she lets her head rest against the back of the door, as her free hand tweaks her nipples through her thin shirt. He moans against her when she begins to roll her hips, her breath coming in quicker pants now. He hears her whimper when she comes, her hips still rolling against his tongue, and he swears the sound shoots straight to his groin.

He loves the feel of her fluttering around his fingers, loves the unique taste of her on his tongue, loves the delicious sounds she makes. He loves it and he wants _more_.

So he doesn’t stop. He laves at her gently with his tongue as she comes down, her fingers still tangled loosely in his hair, her hips stuttering, and slowly whips her into another frenzy. He catalogues every noise she makes, every touch she grants him, counts the number of times his name falls from her lips.

Her knees give out after her third orgasm and he has to hold her up as he brings her down yet again. He sinks to his knees and cradles her in his lap as she catches her breath, her arms winding around his neck as her head rests against his shoulder.

He smiles softly and strokes her back, painfully aware of the uncomfortable tightness of his jeans.

“I told you I missed you,” he whispers, pressing his lips to her temple.

He feels her shift in his arms as she huffs a laugh. He swallows when her hands cradle his face, her fingers gently caressing his cheeks, the words he know she wants say so clear in her eyes. She leans in to kiss him and the world around them falls away.

_She loves him._

* * *

He can’t stop touching her, doesn’t  _want_ to.

(And if the leg curling itself around his waist is any indication, _Emma_ doesn’t want that either).

He loves the slippery feel of her against him, loves to chase the droplets of water with his tongue as they make a path across her skin, loves the way her back arches when he turns her to face the wall of the shower and drags his fingers down her spine.

He bites his lip as he takes her in; naked and wet, her hands braced against the tile wall as she shoots him a heated glance over her shoulder in obvious invitation. He strokes himself a few times before lining up at her entrance.

He grips her hip as he slowly enters her, the drag of her against his cock maddening. She keens as he bottoms out. He rocks his hips gently against her, a groan falling from his lips when she pushes back to meet him. His thrusts become harder, faster as he chases his pleasure, her moans spurring him on, her breasts swaying enticingly as she shifts her weight to her forearms.

He continues to thrust into her as his hand snakes around to her front, cupping the soft heaviness of her breasts and dragging out yet another moan as he thumbs at her nipple. She mutters his name as his hand continues its journey south, quickly finding her clit.

They keep a steady pace, his hips rolling into hers, hers rolling up to meet his, his fingers bringing her to the brink; her plea of “harder” nearly brings him to his knees. He gently pushes her closer to the wall, delighting in the gasp that spills from her lips when her breasts connect with the cold tile. He presses his chest against her back, bracing his forearms against the wall and mouthing at her neck, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing throughout the room.

He feels her hands slide around behind him and grip the cheeks of his ass as he fucks her harder and he knows she must be close. She gasps his name when she comes, her hips stuttering back against his as she flutters around his cock. He groans into her shoulder as the feeling triggers his own orgasm, mouthing at her skin as he shudders to a stop.

He still can’t stop touching her, his hand smoothing over every inch of skin he can reach while still buried inside her. She indulges him and he loves her all the more for it. He knows she appreciates the attention in her own way.

She hums when he pulls her against his chest, the spray of the shower beginning to lose its warmth. Her fingers slide into his hair as she turns her head and meets his lips. He groans slightly when he slips out of her, never breaking their kiss as he turns her around and presses her back against the wall. She presses her forehead to his and closes her eyes as she catches her breath, her fingers tracing the sharp lines of his jaw.

His heart nearly stops in his chest when she tells him she loves him, her eyes open and honest but clearly filled with fear, fear he has every intention of laying to rest.

He tells her he loves her too, and just like that it’s gone.

The smile that spreads across her face makes his heart ache in the best way possible.

_He loves her, she loves him,_ and they’ll face this world just as they always do _: together._


	5. Montana Skies (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (CS AU) – Emma’s family moves from the heart of Boston to an old farm in Montana during her final year of high school (part 1 is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2766002/chapters/8179652)).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: No one really asked for more of this but my brain wouldn’t leave it alone so you’re getting it anyway~
> 
> Many, _many_ thanks to Tiffany (unspoken-and-wild on tumblr) for beta-ing this!

Emma hates everything.

She hates the weather, hates the freaking _dust_ that always seems to end up staining her boots and jeans no matter how careful she is, hates her school, hates this house, hates this _town_ and its stupid, overly friendly residents.

But most of all, she hates her parents.

Her parents, _her own blood_. Those _traitors_ had taken her from the only home and friends she’s ever known and plopped her down in _hell_.

 _“Just give it a chance, Emma,”_ they’d plead, their eyes wide and hopeful, _“Think of this as an adventure.”_

She scoffs to herself as the thought flickers through her head once more. An adventure. What the hell does she need with an adventure? As if her life isn’t complicated enough as it is.

Emma grumpily tosses a rock at the tall birch that grows across from her window, as if this entire ordeal is somehow its fault. Sighing, she leans back against the side of the house, her boots slipping slightly on the roof tiles as she adjusts her position.

The setting sun has painted the sky with an orange hue and the sight of it causes a queer ache to bloom in her chest. A cool wind wafts gently through the trees, its fingers pushing her golden locks from her face. The scent of whatever her father is making for dinner drifts through the open kitchen window, along with the happy screeches of her little brother as he chases their new puppy around the living room. A twinge of envy bubbles in her gut at the sound, a small piece of her wishing that she too could be just as carefree.

It’s been two months since their move. Two months without seeing her best friend (Skype does _not_ count), two months away from the city, two months of her mother and father blabbering excitedly about how _amazing_ this place is, two months of them begging her to just _try_.

Two months of absolute _boredom_.

Their town was small - _too_ small. The ‘happening’ spots were few and far between and included a diner, a single pub aptly named “The Bar,” an ice cream parlor, and a library. Most of her classmates tended to frequent the diner, dubbed “Granny’s” by its clientele, which was owned and operated by a stern old woman who yelled at you if you stayed for too long without ordering something.  They could usually be seen gossiping and giggling over hamburgers and chocolate milkshakes.

As a result, Emma goes there as little as possible.

Instead, she spends most of her free time in the library losing herself amongst the tall shelves and well-worn tomes. The librarian, Belle, is a kind, petite brunette around her mother’s age who mostly leaves her to her own devices (something she _greatly_ appreciates), but is always up for a chat if Emma is willing.

Her mother, it seems, has already managed to befriend half of the townsfolk, as has her father; the two of them are always trying to not-so-subtly push their newfound friends’ kids on her (“Sarah is a great girl, Emma, you’d _adore_ her” and “Isn’t Bobby just the cutest, Emma? And _such_ a gentleman”).

But Emma doesn’t _want_ to make friends here. Emma doesn’t _need_ to make friends here. All _Emma_ wants is to make it through her senior year and (hopefully) go away to college (preferably somewhere far, _far_ away from _this_ place). That had been their main reason for moving all the way out here, hadn’t it? To make sure she didn’t flunk out? She’d at least grant them that wish, so long as they granted _hers_ when the time came…

“Emma, dinner!” her mother calls, shaking her from her thoughts.

Heaving a heavy sigh, she gingerly rises to her feet and climbs back through her bedroom window, trying desperately to quiet the stereotypical ‘angry teenager’ portion of her brain, if only for a few hours. The last thing she needs right now is yet another fight at the dinner table.

 

* * *

 

She really should’ve seen this coming.

The banners had been all over town for _weeks_ , her classmates had talked of literally nothing else the entire month, and her parents, well, _they were her parents_. Never ones to do something half-way, they’d jumped at the chance to take part in one of the town’s oldest traditions; their unrestrained enthusiasm during the last few weeks had been nothing short of maddening.

The Miner’s Day Festival appears to be the event of the year in this little Podunk town. According to her parents, it’s a special celebration of their town’s history (something about nuns and miners, or whatever). (Honestly, Emma had only been half-listening when it had been explained to her).

Emma sighs and slouches in her chair, glaring daggers at anyone who dares to come anywhere near the booth she was manning.  She’s stuck selling _candles_ , of all things; who the hell buys candles at a damn festival?

Whatever the reason, her parents had signed their entire family up as volunteers once they’d discovered how big of a deal this thing was. She wasn’t _quite_ sure how she’d ended up sitting here by herself (something about Leo wanting to “pet the horsies”), but she certainly wasn’t complaining. Her mother was taking this whole thing _way_ too seriously and it was beginning to grate on her nerves, so she was thankful for the reprieve

Her phone vibrates with another text from Elsa; it’s homecoming week at her old school and her friend has been updating her on the latest gossip all evening (it’s currently the one thing keeping her sane). Emma unlocks the screen and opens her messages, snickering over the other blonde’s scathing commentary of the pep rally she’s been forced into attending.

“Fancy meeting you here,” says a lilting voice suddenly, ripping her back to reality.

Emma’s head shoots up at the comment, quickly adopting a blank look upon seeing its source.

“You,” she says evenly, blinking at the smiling man before her.

“And _you_ ,” he quips, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his dark wash jeans, the action causing his plaid button-up to stretch across his chest in a way that was not at _all_ distracting. “This is the absolute _last_ place I’d expected us to meet again.”

Emma sniffs at that, returning her attention to the phone in her hand as it vibrates once more. “You expected us to meet again?” she asks distractedly, skimming the long paragraph of Elsa’s latest text.

“’Course,” he immediately replies, the obstinate certainty of his tone drawing her gaze back to his.

“Why’s that?” she deadpans, raising a thin eyebrow at him.

He shrugs, that infuriating grin never wavering. “Small town and all that. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Emma regards him for a moment, searching for the lie in his words. When she finds none, she sighs and momentarily glances away, needing a reprieve from the intensity of his gaze.

“My parents signed our whole family up,” she explains, wondering briefly why she’s even still talking to him, “Something about ‘being active in the community’. You’ll notice, however, that they’ve left me twisting in the wind.”

He nods sympathetically and steps closer to the front of the booth, a playful glint in his eyes. “Perhaps someone should keep you company until they return. Wouldn’t want you to be overwhelmed with patrons.”

Emma raises another eyebrow at him and gestures to the mostly empty space around them. “What patrons?”

He huffs a laugh in response. “Me, for one.” He pulls two dollars from his pocket and places them on the slab of painted wood between them to make his purchase. “Two candles, if you please, lass.”

“Really?” she snaps, eyes flashing as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t need your charity, buddy.”

“Killian. My name’s Killian,” he replies calmly, his blue eyes strangely earnest, “And I would never be so presumptuous to think a lady such as yourself needs my assistance. I am, however, truly in need of those candles.”

She studies him with wary eyes for a moment, the irritation dissipates almost as quickly as it had appeared. “Yeah, well, you owe me another dollar, _Killian_ ,” she tells him, looking pointedly at the money he’d offered.

He shoots her a quizzical look, his brow furrowing in confusion. “How so?”

“They’re a dollar-fifty,” she says, pointing to the sign above her.

“Since when?” he cries, sounding affronted, “They’re _always_ a dollar.”

She shrugs, amused by his indignation. “Hey, man, I don’t set the prices.”

He grumbles irritably about someone named ‘Leroy’ and pulls another dollar from his pocket.

“What do you need them for, anyway?” she asks curiously, retrieving two white candles from the shelf behind her.

“If you _really_ don’t know, I shan’t be the one that spoils the surprise,” he teases, the playfulness returning to his eyes.

Emma rolls hers in response as he reaches out to take his merchandise from her. Before she releases her grip, he adds, “Thank you, milady, ” with a ridiculous wink.

Emma considers him once more as she stows the cash in the lockbox to her left, idly wondering why she feels the need to act so defensively around him. He’s just as good-looking as the first time they’d met, much to her chagrin, with his thick, dark hair and smooth, chiseled jaw, and strong, lean arms that make her somewhat weak in the knees (not that she was admitting _that_ to anyone any time soon). His eyes are the worst, though. They’re blue, which is all well and good, but it’s what’s behind them that intrigues her the most. There’s a sorrow within them that his charming smiles can’t seem to mask, a sorrow that calls to a part of her that she’s buried deep down inside.

She shakes the thoughts from her head as her phone buzzes once more.  As she reads Elsa’s most recent message, there’s an announcement she doesn’t quite hear over the loudspeaker and when she looks up, Killian is gone. Sighing, she slouches back into her chair and types out a response to her friend, ignoring the strange sense of loss she feels from his absence.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s going on ten o’clock; where in the _hell_ are her parents? She’s texted and called her mother four times already with no response and is about five seconds away from closing up shop and seeking them out on foot.

Suddenly, darkness falls around her.  Seemingly every light in the entire town goes out at once and Emma shifts from aggravated to afraid. What is going on? Where is her family? What if something _terrible_ has happenedto them? She tries her mother’s phone again and bites back a groan of frustration when it goes straight to voicemail.

She takes a deep breath and wills herself to remain calm. Yes, the lights are all out, but no one appears to be alarmed. As far as she can tell, everyone seems to be calmly congregating over by the staging area she’d seen on their way inside.

Curious, she stands and begins to make her way toward the crowd. As she nears, small points of light begin to pop up amidst the sea of townsfolk; cell phones, she realizes. A man begins speaking to the crowd from atop the stage, holding a lit candle in his hands.

She can’t hear everything he’s saying, the old sound equipment barely amplifying his soft voice enough to reach her at the back of the crowd, but she does manage to catch a word here and there. She definitely hears the word ‘tradition’ and more talk of ‘nuns,’ but none of it makes any kind of sense to her.

Especially when everyone suddenly lifts their lights, a combination of cell phones, flashlights, and candles, toward the sky at the same time.

“What the hell?” she mutters, looking around the crowd in confusion.

“It’s tradition,” someone suddenly whispers, startlingly close to her. She snaps her head toward the voice, eyes wide with surprise.

“Thanks, I heard _that_ much,” she whispers back to Killian, who had sidled up beside her unnoticed, that annoying smile still on his stupid lips.

“Long ago, before our little town was properly settled...” he begins, leaning in closer so only she can hear.

She turns to shoot him another look, her breath hitching slightly when she realizes they’re mere inches apart (and if her gaze flickers briefly to his lips, well, that just can’t be helped). He chuckles and holds one of the candles he’d bought out to her instead. Reluctantly, she accepts it, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“Another time then, perhaps,” he jokes, sensing her unease and abandoning his story.  He pulls a lighter from his pocket and holds it to the wick of her candle. 

He lights his own candle with the flame from hers and lifts it slightly, motioning for her to do the same.

She eyes him for a moment before shaking her head in confusion, but raises hers as well. Killian’s shoulder gently nudges hers after a minute or two. When she turns to look at him, he asks, “Enjoying yourself yet?” and wearing the most idiotic grin on his face.

She snorts a laugh and unconsciously sways a little closer to him. “Time of my life,” she quips.

“Glad to hear it, lass,” he whispers back, leaning in close enough that she can smell the spicy scent of his cologne. (She pointedly ignores the way his closeness makes her heart beat just a _little_ faster).

“Emma,” she says, so abruptly even _she’s_ a little surprised.

He raises an eyebrow at her in question. “No, lass, _Killian_ ,” he corrects.

She huffs impatiently and shoots him a look. “No, you idiot, that’s my name. _Emma_.”

He studies her silently for a moment, his smile somehow widening. “Well, it’s lovely to officially meet you, _Emma_ ,” he says softly, holding his free hand out to her.

Emma sniffs at the action and throws him an amused look. “Seriously?”

“Oh, I’m always serious when it comes to handshakes,” he replies earnestly, his eyes dancing with mirth.

She eyes his outstretched hand somewhat warily for a moment. It doesn’t escape her that he notices.

“Come on, love,I shared a _candle_ with you,” he teases, wiggling the fingers on his outstretched hand in invitation.

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, rolling her eyes at him yet again. She grasps his hand firmly, if only to feign a confidence she doesn’t currently feel (and, okay, _maybe_ the feel of his skin against hers sends a not-so-unpleasant tingle up her spine, maybe it doesn’t. She admits nothing).

Her phone chooses that moment to ring ( _of course_ ), and a part of her is grateful because this is only the second time she’s met this ‘Killian’ guy and it already feels like she’s known him for years.

“That’s probably my mom,” she explains, releasing his hand and holding the candle back out to him, “Thanks for the candle.”

“Anytime, lass,” he replies softly, taking it from her. His smile isn’t as bright as it had been a moment ago, but she pretends not to notice.

She steps back to answer the phone and holds it to her ear, throwing Killian a soft, parting smile before she turns away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review (pretty please)?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (CS AU) She’s tired—her feet are sore, her back aches, and if she hears ‘Jinglebell Rock’ one more time she’s going to punch someone in the face.
> 
> (The prompt I used came from [this](http://maliayukiimura.tumblr.com/post/133020582258) list, not hard to guess which one~ ;D)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hi there! Have a random Christmas AU smutlet because I was too busy to actually write anything before Christmas even though I really wanted to. So, yeah, this is my probably sub-par contribution to all the CS Christmas fic everyone posted last week. lmao bye.
> 
> (Un-beta’ed)
> 
> Rated: M

She bites back a moan when his tongue finds that sweet spot just below her left ear (the absolute _last_ thing she needs right now is to get caught by someone’s kid.

Especially in a position like _this_.)

Her fingers tangle in his hair as he traces the shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue, the sound of his breaths in her ear and the scrape of his scruff against her cheek turning her on even more somehow.

“Get on with it, Jones,” she pants, sliding a hand down the side of his neck. “Our break is over in twenty minutes.”

“Patience, Swan,” he chides, groaning softly against her throat when her fingers pull the hair at the nape of his neck.

Her breath hitches as he grinds against her center in retaliation, the thin fabric of their costumes leaving little the imagination. Their lips find each other again in the semi-darkness of the dusty ‘cottage’ and the tiny bells on her hat tinkle merrily with every turn of her head.

“No, seriously, _now_ ,” Emma demands breathlessly, pushing him back enough to make quick work of his trousers.

“So demanding,” he jests, biting his bottom lip as her fingers slip beneath his waistband to grasp him.

She pumps him a few times, a wicked smile stretching across her lips at the desire building in his eyes. “You love it.”

“Indeed,” he agrees, his smile oddly fond before leaning in to press a heated kiss to her lips.

He pulls away after a moment before sinking to his knees before her, his nimble fingers gingerly inching down the red and white stripped tights beneath her skirt. He purposefully caresses each newly exposed patch of skin and by the time he’s managed to free her left leg, Emma’s had enough.

She hauls him back to his feet by his vest and pulls his mouth back to hers. She swipes her tongue between his lips and swallows the moan he unleashes when she wraps her legs around his waist.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Swan,” he mumbles, releasing a shuddering breath when she reaches between them to guide him to her center.

 _Same here_ , she thinks, sighing in relief as he sinks into her.

It starts out slow, almost lazy, each snap of their hips gently stoking the fire within her. After what feels like hours, she begins to feel that telltale heat coil in her belly. She digs her heels into his lower back in encouragement, her fingernails digging into his biceps.

He must get the message because he balances her against the wall, the change in angle causing the breath to back up in her lungs. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, moaning against her as her fingernails scratch lightly against his scalp.

She close— _so_ close.

“Harder,” she breathes in his ear, inhaling sharply as a well-timed thrust hits her _just_ right.

She comes with a gasp, her walls fluttering around his cock. She feels more than hears his groan at the sensation, his hips snapping mercilessly against hers until he stiffens. He sags in relief after a moment, his weight pressing her against the wall even more.

She’s still attempting to catch her breath when he leans back to meet her gaze (which doesn’t help matters). He has that look in his eyes again, the one she keeps pretending not to see, the one she can’t admit is probably in _her_ eyes too.

“We should get back,” she whispers, averting her gaze and disentangling herself from his embrace.

He studies her briefly, before nodding and going to work on righting his costume. “Aye.”

“So,” she begins after a moment, nervous somehow despite the number of times she’s been in this exact same situation with him. “Same time tomorrow?”

He takes a step toward her, a soft smile on his lips, before reaching out to push a wayward curl behind her ear.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, love.”


End file.
